THE WEST.

Ho! brothers-come hither and list to my story-
Merry and brief will the narrative be:
Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory--
Master am I, boys, of all that I see.
Where once frown'd a forest a garden is smiling-
The meadow and moorland are marshes no
more;

And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling
The children who cluster like grapes at the door,
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
The land of the heart is the land of the west.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

T'alk not of the town, boys,-give me the broad prairie,

Where man like the wind roams impulsive and Behold how its beautiful colours all vary, [free; Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea. A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing;

With proud independence we season our cheer, And those who the world are for happiness ranging, Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the west. Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger, We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own; We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,

And care not a fig for the king on his throne; We never know want, for we live by our labour, And in it contentment and happiness find; We do what we can for a friend or a neighbour, And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; You know how we live, boys, and die in the west! Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

66 LAND-HO!"

Up, up, with the signal! The land is in sight! We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've pass'd, And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last. In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find, To soothe us in absence of those left behind. Land-land-ho! All hearts glow with joy at the sight!

We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!
The signal is waving! Till morn we'll remain,
Then part in the hope to meet one day again
Round the hearth-stone of home in the land of our
birth,

The holiest spot on the face of the earth!
Dear country! our thoughts are as constant to thee,
As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea.
Ho!-land-ho! We near it-we bound at the
sight!

Then be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!
The signal is answer'd The foam-sparkles rise
Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes!

May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of

care,

Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair!
One health, as chime gayly the nautical bells,
To woman-God bless her!-wherever she dwells!
THE PILOT'S ON BOARD!-and, thank Heaven,
all's right!

So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER.

UPON the barren sand

A single captive stood,

Around him came, with bow and brand,
The red men of the wood.

Like him of old, his doom he hears,
Rock-bound on ocean's rim:-

The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
And breathed a prayer for him.
Above his head in air,

The savage war-club swung, The frantic girl, in wild despair,

Her arms about him flung. Then shook the warriors of the shade, Like leaves on aspen limb, Subdued by that heroic maid

Who breathed prayer for him. "Unbind him?" gasp'd the chief,

66

Obey your king's decree!" He kiss'd away her tears of grief,

And set the captive free. "Tis ever thus, when in life's storm,

Hope's star to man grows dim, An angel kneels in woman's form, And breathes a prayer for him.

WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE."

When other friends are round thee,

And other hearts are thine,

When other bays have crown'd thee, More fresh and green than mine, Then think how sad and lonely

This doating heart will be, Which, while it throbs, throbs only, Beloved one, for thee!

Yet do not think I doubt thee,
I know thy truth remains;
I would not live without thee,
For all the world contains.
Thou art the star that guides me
Along life's changing sea;
And whate'er fate betides me,

This heart still turns to thee.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.*

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it shelter'd me,

And I'll protect it now.
"Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters play'd. My mother kiss'd me here;

My father press'd my handForgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

*After I had sung the noble ballad of Woodman, spare that tree, at Boulogne, says Mr Henry Russell, the vocalist, an old gentlenian, among the audience, who was greatly moved by the simple and touching beauty of the words, rose and said, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell, but was the tree really spared?" "It was," said I. "I am very glad to hear it," said he, as he took his seat amidst the unanimous applause of the whole assembly, 1 never saw such excitement in a concert-room.

Ax ivy-mantled cottage smiled,
Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side,
Where dwelt the village pastor's child,

In all her maiden bloom and pride.
Proud suitors paid their court and duty
To this romantic sylvan beauty:

Yet none of all the swains who sought her,
Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.

The town-gallants cross'd hill and plain,
To seek the groves of her retreat,

And many follow'd in her train,

To lay their riches at her feet. But still, for all their arts so wary, From home they could not lure the fairy. A maid without a heart, they thought her, And so they left the pastor's daughter.

One balmy eve in dewy spring

A bard became her father's guest; He struck his harp, and every string To love vibrated in her breast. With that true faith which cannot falter, Her hand was given at the altar, And faithful was the heart he brought her To wedlock and the pastor's daughter. How seldom learn the worldly gay,

With all their sophistry and art,
The sweet and gentle primrose-way

To woman's fond, devoted heart:
They seek, but never find the treasure.
Although reveal'd in jet and azure.
To them, like truth in wells of water,
A fable is the pastor's daughter.

This distinguished political and miscellaneous writer was born in the city of New York, in the summer of 1802, and was educated at the Georgetown College, in the District of Columbia. In 1822 he entered the navy of the United States as a midshipman; but in consequence of the arbitrary conduct of his commander, Captain JonN ORDE CREIGHTON, he retired from the service in 1826, after which time he devoted himself mainly to literary pursuits. His first publication was entitled "Leisure Hours at Sea," and was composed of various short poems written while he was in the navy. In 1828 he established, in New York, "The Critic," a weekly literary gazette, which he conducted with much ability for seven or eight months, at the end of which time it was united with the "Mirror," to which he became a regular contributor. In “The Critic" and "The Mirror," he first published "The Rifle," "The Main Truck, or the Leap for Life," "White Hands, or Not Quite in Character," and other stories, afterward embraced in the volumes entitled "Tales by a Country Schoolmaster," and "Sketches of the Sea." These tales and sketches are probably the most spirited and ingenious productions of their kind ever written in this country.

In 1829 Mr. LEGGETT became associated with Mr. BRYANT, in the editorship of the "Evening Post," and on the departure of that gentleman for Europe, in 1834, the entire direction of that able journal was devolved to him. A severe illness, which commenced near the close of the succeeding year, induced him to relinquish his connexion with the "Post;" and on his recovery, in 1836, he commenced "The Plaindealer," a weekly periodical devoted to politics and literature, for which he obtained great reputation by his independent and fearless assertion of doctrines, and the vigorous eloquence and powerful reasoning by which he maintained them. It was discontinued, in consequence of the failure of his publisher, before the close of the year; and his health, after that period, prevented his connexion with any other journal. In 1828 he had been married to Miss ELMIRA WARING, daughter of Mr. JONA. WARING, of New Rochelle; and to that pleasant village he now retired, with his family. He occasionally visited his, friends in the city, and a large portion of the democratic party there proposed to nominate him for a seat in Congress; but as he had acted independently of a majority of the party in regard to certain important political questions, his formal nomination was prevented. In April, 1840, he was appointed by Mr. VAN BUREN, then President of the United States, a diplomatic agent from our

• Soon after the death of Mr. Leggett, Mr. JOHN L. STEPHENS, whose "Travels in Central America" have been since published, was appointed his successor as diplomatic agent to that country.

government to the Republic of Guatemala. He was preparing to depart for that country, when he suddenly expired, on the twenty-ninth day of following month, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. A few months after his death, a collection of his political writings, in two large duodecimo volumes, was published, under the direction of his friend, Mr. THEODORE SEDGWICK. Besides the works already mentioned, he wrote much in various periodicals, and was one of the authors of "The Tales of Glauber Spa," published in 1832. In the maturity of his powers, his time and energies were devoted to political writing. His poems are the poorest of his productions, and were written while he was in the naval service, or during his editorship of "The Critic." In addition to his Melodieswhich are generally ingenious and well versifiedhe wrote one or two prize addresses for the theatres, and some other pieces, which have considerable merit.

His death was deeply and generally deplored, especially by the members of the democratic party, who regarded him as one of the ablest champions of their principles. Mr. BRYANT, with whom he was for several years intimately associated, published in the Democratic Review" the following tribute to his character :

"The earth may ring from shore to shore,
With echoes of a glorious name;
But he whose loss our hearts deplore
Has left behind him more than fame.
"For when the death-frost came to lie
Upon that warm and mighty heart,
And quench that bold and friendly eye,
His spirit did not all depart.
"The words of fire that from his pen

Were flung upon the lucid page,
Still move, still shake the hearts of men,
Amid a cold and coward age.

"His love of Truth, too warm-too strong
For Hope or Fear to chain or chill,
His hate of Tyranny and Wrong,

Burn in the breasts he kindled still."

Mr. SEDGWICK, in the preface to his political writings, remarks that "every year was softening his prejudices, and calming his passions; enlarging his charities, and widening the bounds of his liberality. Had a more genial clime invigorated nis constitution, and enabled him to return to his labours, a brilliant and honourable future might have been predicted of him. It is not the sugges tion of a too fond affection, but the voice of a calm judgment, which declares that, whatever public Career he had pursued, he must have raised to his memory an imperishable monument, and that as no name is now dearer to his friends, so few could have been more honourably associated with the history of his country, than that of WILLIAM LEGGETT."

A SACRED MELODY.

Ir yon bright stars which gem the night
Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,
Where kindred spirits reunite,

Whom death has torn asunder here;
How sweet it were at once to die,

And leave this blighted orb afarMixed soul with soul, to cleave the sky,

And soar away from star to star.

But, O! how dark, how drear, how lone

Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If, wandering through each radiant one,

We fail'd to find the loved of this! If there no more the ties should twine,

Which death's cold hand alone can sever, Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,

More hateful, as they shine forever.

It cannot be each hope and fear

That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere

Than this bleak world that holds us now! There is a voice which sorrow hears,

When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; "Tis heaven that whispers, "Dry thy tears: The pure in heart shall meet again!"

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

THE birds, when winter shades the sky,
Fly o'er the seas away,

Where laughing isles in sunshine lie,
And summer breezes play;

And thus the friends that flutter near

While fortune's sun is warm,

Are startled if a cloud appear,

And fly before the storm.

But when from winter's howling plains
Each other warbler's past,
The little snow-bird still remains,

And chirrups midst the blast.

Love, like that bird, when friendship's throng
With fortune's sun depart,
Still lingers with its cheerful song,
And nestles on the heart.

SONG.

1 TRUST the frown thy features wear Ere long into a smile will turn;

I would not that a face so fair

As thine, beloved, should look so stern. The chain of ice that winter twines, Holds not for aye the sparkling rill, It melts away when summer shines,

And leave the waters sparkling still. Thus let thy cheek resume the smile

That shed sucn sunny light before; And though I left thee for a while,

I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more.

As he who, doomed o'er waves to roam,
Or wander on a foreign strand,
Will sigh whene'er he thinks of home,
And better love his native land;
So I, though lured a time away,
Like bees by varied sweets, to rove,
Return, like bees, by close of day,

And leave them all for thee, my love.
Then let thy cheek resume the smile
That shed such sunny light before,
And though I left thee for a while,
I swear to leave thee, love, no more.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY was born in London, in October, 1802, while his father, the Honourable WILLIAM PINKNEY, was the American Minister at the court of St. James'. Soon after the return of his family to Baltimore, in 1811, he entered St. Mary's College, in that city, and remained there until he was fourteen years old, when he was appointed a midshipman in the navy. He continued in the service nine years, and in that period visited the Mediterranean and several other foreign stations, and acquired much general knowledge and acquaintance with mankind.

The death of his father, and other circumstances, induced him, in 1824, to resign his piace in the navy; and in the same year he was married, and admitted to the Maryland bar. His career as a lawyer was brief and unfortunate. He opened an office in Baltimore, and applied himself earnestly to his profession; but though his legal acquire ments and forensic abilities were respectable, his rooms were seldom visited by a client; and after two years had passed, disheartened by neglect, and with a prospect of poverty before him, he suddenly determined to enter the naval service of Mexico, in which a number of our officers had already won distinction and fortune. When, however, he presented himself before Commodore PORTER, then commanding the sea-forces of that country, the situation he solicited was refused, and he was compelled reluctantly to return to the United States.

He reappeared in Baltimore, poor and dejected. He turned his attention again to the law, but in his vigorous days he had been unable to support himself by his profession; and now, when he was suffering from disease and a settled melancholy, it was not reasonable to anticipate success. The erroneous idea that a man of a poetical mind cannot transact business requiring patience and habits of careful investigation, was undoubtedly one of the principal causes of his failure as a lawyer; for that he was respected, and that his fellow-citizens were willing to confer upon him honours, is evident from the fact that, in 1826, he was appointed one of the professors in the Unjversity of Maryland. This office, however, was one of honour only: it yielded no profit.

PINKNEY now became sensible that his constitution was broken, and that he could not long

It has been said that Commodore PORTER refused to give PINKNEY a commission, because he was known to be a warm adherent of an administration to which he was himself opposed; but it is more reasonable to beheve, as was alleged at the time, that the navy of Mexico was full, and that the citizens of that republic had begun to regard with jealousy the too frequent admission of foreigners into the service.

survive; but he had no wish to live. His feelings
at this period are described in one of nis poems --
"A sense it was, that I could see
The angel leave my side-
That thenceforth my prosperity
Must be a falling tide;

A strange and ominous belief,
That in spring-time the yellow leaf
Had fallen on my hours;

And that all hope must be most vain,
of finding on my path again

Its former vanish'd flowers."

Near the close of the year 1827, a political gazette, entitled "The Marylander," was established in Baltimore, and, in compliance with the general wish of the proprietors, Mr. PINKNEY undertook to conduct it. He displayed much sagacity and candour, and in a few weeks won a high reputation in his new vocation; but his increasing illness compelled him to leave it, and he died on the eleventh of April, 1828, at the early age of twenty-five years and six months. was a man of genius, and had all the qualities of mind and heart that win regard and usually lead to greatness, except ноPE and ENERGY.

66

He

A small volume containing "Rodolph," and other poems, was published by PINKNEY in 1825. Rodolph" is his longest work. It was first published, anonymously, soon after he left the navy, and was probably written while he was in the Mediterranean. It is in two cantos. The first begins,

"The summer's heir on land and sea
Had thrown his parting glance

And winter taken angrily

His waste inheritance.
The winds in stormy revelry
Sported beneath a frowning sky;
The chafing waves, with hollow roar,
Tumbled upon the shaken shore,
And sent their spray in upward showers
To Rodolph's proud ancestral towers,
Whose bastion, from its mural crown,
A regal look cast sternly down."

There is no novelty in the story, and not much can be said for its morality. The hero, in the season described in the above lines, arrives at his own domain, after many years of wandering in foreign lands, during which he had grown old ir heart, and infirm of frame." In his youth he had loved-the wife of another-and his passion had been returned. "At an untimely tide," he had met the husband, and, in encounter, slain him. The wife goes into a convent, and her paramour seeks refuge from remorse in distant countries. In the beginning of the second canto, he is once more ir his own castle; but, feeling some dark presentiment, he wanders to a cemetery, where, in the morning, he is found by hi vassals, "senseless